


A Study in Mithril

by lily_winterwood



Series: All That is Gold Does Not Glitter [1]
Category: Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Middle-earth Setting, Gen, Mystery, casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-07
Updated: 2012-07-07
Packaged: 2017-11-09 08:28:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/453423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lily_winterwood/pseuds/lily_winterwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What begins as a business trip to Bree on behalf of the family business turns, for Hanncome "John" Watson of Bywater, into the beginnings of an adventure. Thankfully, he’s half-Took. Middle-earth AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Character names have been changed to adapt to Middle-earthian naming customs. If it’s not obvious later on, Sílchanar Eregnirion is Sherlock, Maechenebon is Mycroft, Lestedir is Lestrade, and the Dwarves are the four murder victims of “A Study in Pink”.

In the gathering twilight, the creaking sign of the Prancing Pony swayed before John Watson as the little hobbit looked around him and slipped, hooded, into the inn. Behind him followed his friend Mike Stamford, who was a little rounder than John and whose eyes lit up at the sight of a hearty drinking competition between men with ruddy faces.

“Shall I get us some ale, John?” asked Mike, already inching towards the drinking tables. His real name was Merovech, but obviously no one in the Shire ever called him that. John – whose real name was Hanncome – took off his hood and nodded. Mike grinned, then, and moved off to find the bartender.

With the pull of a bell, the rosy-nosed innkeeper of the Prancing Pony appeared over the edge of the reception desk. “Ah, hello there Master Hanncome! Your letter said you’d be here yesterday.”

“I was waylaid by inquisitive busybodies,” John replied, grimacing for half a second before he smiled brightly at the innkeeper.

“Relatives?”

“Oh yes, on my mother’s side. Tooks, the lot of them. They’ve always had that strange taste for adventure, and all the little ones begged to come along with me.” John sighed, shaking his head. “It’s wearisome and annoying, to say the least!”

“Well, you’re welcome to spend the night here. We’ve received the ale shipments already; you just need to sign the forms.” The innkeeper gestured for the hobbit to come along to his side of the desk. “Your family’s ale truly does our humble establishment well!”

John laughed. “Thank you, Mister Butterbur.”

Mr Butterbur held out a stack of papers and a quill, but John took a look at the header and shook his head.

“Those aren’t my forms,” he pointed out.

“They’re not?” Mr Butterbur frowned, and spun around to hunt for the forms. John watched him amusedly; the man had a head so cluttered that he often forgot everything of importance.

But after a moment, Mr Butterbur located the necessary papers. John signed them accordingly and, with business finished, thanked the innkeeper for doing business with the Green Dragon and headed off to find his friend Mike.

Mike was sitting at a table with several men, laughing and smoking pipes of Longbottom Leaf. John slid in next to him and grabbed an unattended pint of ale.

“Thank you, Mike,” he said.

Mike laughed. “You wouldn’t believe how hard it was for me to get them.”

“Why? Because the counter was too high?”

“No, the barmaid was too nasty.”

“Really.” John laughed and set down his pint.

“She demanded to know where I came from and what I was doing here, and I said I was here accompanying my friend Hanncome Watson from Bywater and then she got real nosy, asking what you were doing away from the Shire and why.”

“Are you talking about old Sally?” asked the man across from Mike suddenly. “Sally Brunheather?”

“Is that her name?”

“Curly hair, dark skin?”

“Yeah.” Mike shrugged.

“She doesn’t trust strangers,” the man explained, leaning in with a grin. “Leastways no one outside Bree. There’s been some bad things going on around here.”

“What sort of things?” whispered Mike, as John leant in interestedly.

The man looked around him warily, before leaning in as well. “You know the Dwarves?”

“Yeah, a troupe of them visited Bywater about thirty years back. They’ve got some dealings with that wizard Gandalf,” John replied.

“Don’t forget the Bagginses,” added Mike, nudging John. “Mary’s uncle Hamfast says there’s often Dwarves coming in and out of Bag End.”

“That’s true, too.” John nodded. “I think I met one of them when I was five. He came to the Green Dragon with Gandalf after doing something up at Bag End.”

“It’s odd, isn’t it? Bagginses associating with outsiders,” Mike remarked. “They’re always the respectable type. But then again Bilbo Baggins did run off into the blue and came back with mountains of treasures.”

The man nodded. “Those Dwarves come from over the Misty Mountains, from Dale, I believe. A huge number of them stop in Bree on their way through the area. Some of them never leave.”

John looked at Mike, eyebrows raised. “Never leave?” echoed Mike.

“Killed,” explained the man, eyes lighting up as he strikes a match to light his next pipe. The warm glow of the fire threw the rest of his face into shadow. “There’s been three deaths already, and all of them happened in Bree.”

“Dwarf killings in Bree.” Mike looked at John, wide-eyed. “That’s horrific!”

“Mm.” The man took a couple thoughtful puffs of his pipe as John finished his pint. “The Rangers have been trying to find the killer, but as far as I can see they have met with limited success.”

“Why would you say that?” asked Mike, wide-eyed.

“Because they’ve called on the Elves to help.”

Elves. John looked over his shoulder, following the man’s pointed stare. Sure enough, in the corner of the room stood a tall, lithe figure with a strikingly pale and beautiful face. Something otherworldly played about his features, from his high cheekbones to his startlingly iridescent eyes.

It was the first time John had seen an elf. He had read about them in his time poring over books about healing and medicine, but nothing in his books could have ever prepared him to see one in real life.

This elf looked nothing like the pictures in the books, though, with dark hair falling in errant curls that stop a couple inches above his shoulders, much like the style of Men. He wore a dark blue scarf around his neck and an outfit of black and dark purple, with a sharp knife at his side. He hovered on the periphery of attention, merely choosing to observe the room before him with a distinct air of boredom about him.

John, after a while, turned back to the man with eyebrows raised.

“Where does he come from?” Mike breathed.

“Rivendell,” John said immediately. “I doubt Elves from Lindon would travel this far to solve murders, and aside from those at Rivendell the other Elves in the area live on the other side of the Misty Mountains and don’t have dark hair.”

“He’s interesting, to say the least,” remarked the man thoughtfully. “Some kind of helper for the Rangers, I think.” John turned around again at that in time to see a silver-haired Ranger walk up to the dark-haired elf and begin talking to him in Elvish. “But he doesn’t like old Sally or the rest of us, so I don’t think he’s solving the case out of the goodness of his heart.”

The Ranger abruptly left, exiting out a side door that John hadn’t noticed before. The elf looked around, letting a small grin sneak onto his features, and left the inn.


	2. Chapter 2

“A fourth Dwarf murder bearing a message! What a wonderful present you make for me, Lestedir.” The dark-haired elf pulled his blue scarf closer around his neck and beamed as he stepped out into the night. The Ranger, Lestedir, looked heavenward.

“You are more immature than an elfling sometimes, Sílchanar,” he remarked.

Sílchanar harrumphed and marched on through the darkened streets of Bree in search of the crime scene. He worked with the Dúnedain on a case-by-case basis, something that had led to his reputation as the only ‘consulting Ranger’ in possibly all of Middle-earth. An unparalleled expert at tracking, observation, and deduction, Sílchanar was capable of finding, within a maze of tangled threads, the one trail that would lead him to the solution.

“Who is she?” Sílchanar asked immediately as soon as he reached the body. The figure lay prostrate, but the size and bulky shape as well as the numerous accoutrements of Dwarvish armour and jewellery confirmed that this crime was yet another Dwarf murder. An evil-looking dagger stuck out of the corpse’s back.

“She?” echoed Lestedir, frowning.

“Exactly. You merely see but do not observe, my friend.”

“I thought–”

“You obviously weren’t.” Sílchanar knelt down next to the dwarf and began digging around in her pockets. “She may sport a beard, but she also wears extensive amounts of metallic jewellery. What is her name?”

“Jófríðr,” replied the Ranger, crossing his arms. “What information do you have?”

Sílchanar stood up after a moment, smiling. “Not much, I’m afraid. What’s obvious, though, is that she was accompanying her husband on their way to business in the Ered Luin, that her marriage was an unhappy one, and that she had dealings with Elves in the past.”

“How in all of Arda could you have –?”

“Simple. Female Dwarves, when they travel at all, do not usually carry this much ostentatious jewellery, so she was rebelling against her customs – and since the jewels are all valuable ones, she may have chosen to bring them along to sell for money, to sustain herself after leaving her husband. This was just a taste of the customs violations that she would have perpetrated by leaving her husband, though – after all, Dwarves rarely marry due to the paucity of females, and those females will marry late if ever and never against their will. They take one spouse for the rest of their lives.”

“So it takes more time for them to come to the decision. Why, then, was she unhappy with her choice if she wasn’t forced?” Lestedir demanded.

Sílchanar laughed. “I do not dwell overlong on theories unless I can prove them. I can prove she had dealings with an Elf, though – her wallet is substantially full of Elvish coins.”

“And how do you know she was going to the Ered Luin?”

“The map.” Sílchanar pulled it out of the sleeve of the female dwarf’s shirt.

“That’s brilliant!” A third voice cut in abruptly, and the Ranger and the elf turned to see a hobbit standing by the nearby cart, eyes wide. He had hair the colour of burnished bronze and wore a green cloak around his shoulders.

“Who are you?” demanded Lestedir, but Sílchanar put the map in the Ranger’s hands and walked over to the hobbit, recognising him as one of the two from the inn.

“You come from Bywater, I believe?” he asked. The hobbit stared at him, eyes only growing wider.

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Your clothes are of Shire-make judging by the linen of the shirt and the wool from the cloak, not to mention the predominance of buttons which are usually replaced with clasps outside the Shire – buttons are lost so easily in battle, after all. You were consulting Barliman Butterbur at the Prancing Pony, but the question is, why would you travel outside the Shire to do that at all? Either you must claim Took or Brandybuck heredity, which would give you the disposition for adventure that goes against the customs of your kin, or you must be here on business. Business seems far more likely, because, as I said earlier, you were talking to the owner of the Prancing Pony. Chances are you must have business with him, chances are that business is related innkeeping, and the foremost inn in the Shire is the Green Dragon in Bywater. Am I correct?”

The hobbit laughed. “On all accounts, yes.” He held out a hand. “I am Hanncome Watson of Bywater.”

“Sílchanar, from Rivendell.” Sílchanar smiled at him. “Your praise is not something I usually hear.”

The hobbit blinked, almost as if in surprise and disbelief. “What do people usually tell you, then?”

“ _Labo vi Orodruin_.” At that, the hobbit only looked more confused. “In common? ‘Go jump into Mount Doom’.”

Lestedir shot them a raised eyebrow as the hobbit snickered quietly behind his hand. “Shall we get back to investigating?” he demanded, causing Sílchanar to nod and stride back to the dwarf.

“What do you think happened to her, Mr Watson?” he asked in a loud voice as the hobbit followed suit as well, peering curiously down at the body. “She’s been murdered, obviously, but somehow she found the time to write a message for us in blood on the nearby wall.”

“So you mean to say she wrote ‘ _mithril_ ’ on the wall?” Lestedir demanded, gesturing to the bloody message written several feet above the dwarf-woman’s head.

Sílchanar scoffed. “No, obviously not.”

“Then what do you mean by her finding the time to write a message?”

“ _She_ didn’t write ‘ _mithril_ ’ on the wall; her attacker did. Look at how far up it is. If she did it she would have been on the tips of her toes. Her killer is no Dwarf or Hobbit.”

“And he killed her for her silver, didn’t he?” asked Lestedir. “I mean, she has none on her –”

Sílchanar shook his head. “You Dúnedain have become more and more incompetent as the years go by,” he sighed. “If her killer slew her for possessing _mithril_ , then the crime would be greed-motivated – and yet he did not steal her other jewels.”

“Maybe he was just targeting people who owned dwarf-silver. After all, how much is an ounce of _mithril_ worth these days?” Lestedir leaned against the wall, taking out a black notebook and a piece of vine charcoal for notes. Ignoring him, Sílchanar bent over the body again.

“He didn’t stab her, either. Look at the wound,” the _ellon_ said suddenly, frowning. Hanncome Watson leaned in, examining the wound curiously.

“It’s fresh,” the hobbit remarked. “How long was she dead?”

“I’d say about four hours,” Lestedir offered.

“Stabbed after death,” breathed Sílchanar. “That means she died some other way.” He had pulled on a set of gloves as he spoke; now he was reaching out and retrieving the dagger. “Goblin-made.”

“But there’s been no sign of a goblin in Bree anywhere,” Lestedir pointed out.

“Her death was crafted to look like an attack by a goblin, obviously,” Sílchanar replied, turning the blade over in his hands and scrutinising it. After a moment he set it down and bent over the dwarf’s head, prising open her mouth and sniffing gingerly.

He retched slightly and leaned away. “Poison.”

“Poison!” exclaimed both Ranger and hobbit, except the hobbit looked more enthusiastic. Sílchanar got up and looked around him, sniffing the air.

“Where do you think the people of Bree put their refuse?” he asked.


	3. Chapter 3

John had found himself oddly drawn to the acerbic _ellon_ , who was now rushing away in random directions, ostensibly in search of a refuse pile within walking distance of the crime scene. He would have followed, but it was nearing midnight and he was getting rather sleepy. After the fifth yawn, the Ranger accompanying Sílchanar smiled indulgently at him and told him to go back to the inn.

“I don’t believe you offered me your name,” John mumbled as he leaned against the wall to prevent himself from falling over.

“They call me Lestedir,” replied the Ranger, “the Listener.”

John nodded. “I suppose you do that a lot?”

“Especially with Sílchanar.” A pause. “All of this is rather odd, don’t you think?”

“Odd?” John echoed.

“You’ve garnered the favour of Sílchanar of Rivendell in such a short matter of time,” explained the Ranger. “It takes years for the rest of us and I still think he indiscriminately hates us. Even Gandalf has to make an effort.”

John’s eyebrows rose. “I thought he’d respect someone as wise as Gandalf,” he mumbled. After all, as much as the Hobbits of the Shire talked about Gandalf being responsible for Bilbo Baggins’ mysterious disappearance and as much as they muttered about him disturbing the peace of the Shire by wandering through it so often, they still respected the wizard for being wise and skilled, especially with his fireworks. There was talk about Bilbo possibly asking Gandalf to set off fireworks on one of his upcoming birthdays.

“The last time I saw them at Rivendell, Sílchanar called him a smoke-clouded old fool. But then it’s no secret that the elf likes the smell of pipe-weed, even if he doesn’t smoke it himself.”

John laughed. “You sound like you’ve known him for a while.”

“Since he first began offering his services, actually.” Lestedir looked uncomfortable, or that could just be the shadows playing across his lined face. Even though his hair was silver, his eyes were still young and bright, keen like eagle eyes. “Before that, I heard he upset Lord Elrond with experiments in the Hall of Fire. So his working with us benefits everyone else, I suppose.”

Their conversation, however, was cut short at that moment by the sudden reappearance of said consulting Ranger, who was holding two empty phials in his hand, looking as if the midsummer feast had come early.

 “This cinches everything!” the exuberant _ellon_ declared, thrusting the phials into Lestedir’s hands. “Tomorrow we’ll be able to draw together the final threads that complete the tapestry. Master Hanncome, I believe you need to go to bed.”

“I’m not sleepy,” John defended, but Sílchanar raised an eyebrow pointedly as he yawned again.

“We cannot move further in the case until tomorrow, Master Hobbit, so if you stayed you would be bored out of your mind.” Sílchanar took the phials back and tucked them away into the folds of his cloak. “I believe your friend has tried to wait up for you, but gave up the effort and fell asleep about ten minutes ago. You ought to sleep, too, or you shall be no use to me tomorrow.”

“You’ll let me help you?” John asked, not sure why he felt so excited at the prospect. After all, tracking down a murderer should be, in the minds of most Hobbits, a nasty thing that any respectable Hobbit should not be involved in. Yet despite that John felt eager to help, ready to assist. Perhaps Lestedir’s revelations had something to do with it.

The elf nodded. “I need to figure out what poison killed her and the apothecary responsible for selling the poison. From there, we will be able to find the killer.”

John beamed. “All right, then. Good night.”

By the time he got back to the Prancing Pony, Mike was indeed fast asleep in the bed next to his. Shrugging out of his travelling clothes, John crossed over to the basin to wash his face, staring at his moonlit figure in the mirror.

What was it about this adventure that called to him? He couldn’t quite pinpoint it, but perhaps working with Sílchanar had a huge part in it. He could have not slipped out of the inn to follow the Ranger and the elf, after all, and gone back to Bywater to live a normal, _respectable_ life.

But now here he was, poised on the brink of some great adventure with one of the sharpest minds in Middle-earth. How foolish he was the morning he set out from Bywater, thinking that nothing ever happened to him!

“Well something’s happening to you, Hanncome Watson, and it’ll do you no good to ignore it,” he told himself as he splashed more water onto his face.

John had always had much of a predisposition for adventure, especially when he was in his tweens. Despite the respectability of the Watson line (not counting the family propensity for overindulging in ale) that predominated most of his character, the Took strain from his mother’s side was really quite strong within him. His mother was, after all, Clarabella Took, one of the three sisters of Thain Paladin Took II. The Watsons had been very much torn between appreciation for her connections and disdain for her thirst for adventure when their son Hartmut had married her, but with marriage, the free-spirited hobbit-lass had settled into keeping the family inn quite nicely.

Still, that didn’t mean she didn’t instil a love for mountains and seas into her children, because one of the earliest stories John had heard clasped to his mother’s breast was the tale of Elven-kings in halls of gold, within far-away forests covered in mist.

He’d always wanted to see those Elven-kings, or at least an Elf. But as he grew up, as he came of age, he realised that that simply wasn’t how Hobbits lived their lives. A respectable Hobbit did not run off into the blue for adventure, missing all the important meals in favour of mountains and danger. A respectable Hobbit got married and tended to a farm or a shop or a garden for the rest of his life. John was, after all, poised to inherit the Green Dragon with the passing of his father. It was bound to happen now, with his father approaching his nineties and John already fifty.

Surely his father wouldn’t mind him going off on an adventure just once in his life. On that note, John crawled into his comfortable bed and fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

His dreams that night were pervaded by tall, dark, curly-haired _ellyn_.

* * *

Lestedir would normally have objected to Sílchanar bringing corpses from various crime scenes into his room, but they were sharing the loft in the barn across from the Prancing Pony and Sílchanar had no use for sleep.

The elf at this moment had placed the dead dwarf on the table and was scrubbing the insides of her mouth with rags. He had also broken the glass phials and was wiping the inside surfaces of each. The Ranger found it all very odd, but he said nothing.

Only a couple candles lit up the workspace. Sílchanar was using one of them to set some of the rags on fire for some reason unknown to the Ranger. He himself often relied on his senses, but obviously there was something subtle in the experiments that could only be found by Elven senses.

“I’m going to sleep,” Lestedir muttered, rubbing at his eyes as he crossed over to the miserable-looking straw pallet only barely covered in a blanket. He took off his cloak and laid it on top, before lying down and turning to watch Sílchanar putter away in candlelight.

The elf was fascinating to watch while he worked, brows furrowed as he muttered his thoughts to himself. Occasionally he would set down his experiments and steeple his fingers, eyes gaining a misty, faraway look as he tried to dredge up bits of knowledge garnered from ages of experience. There was no denying that Sílchanar Eregnirion had a formidable mind, sharper than the edge of the keenest sword, faster than flight of the swiftest arrow. He and his brother Maechenebon were renowned amongst Elves and Men for their mental acuity, which at the moment was merely bubbling beneath the surface as the elf chipped away at the mystery of the Dwarven murders.

The first victim had been found less than a year ago, in the dead of winter just inside the gates of Bree. His name had been Jófreyr, son of Jöfurr, and a renowned silversmith to boot. At the time he had been delivering a cartload of fine silver to the Ered Luin with his father and an unknown companion. Within three months of his death, another silversmith named Jarl, son of Járngrímr, was discovered near the Ferny residence. Of course the Fernys were suspected, but that lead had taken the Rangers nowhere. The unknown companion of Jófreyr had been a suspect for disappearing, but upon further inquiry at the Lonely Mountain it turned out said companion had been a female dwarf apprenticed to the silversmith and knew nothing about his murder.

The most recent victim before Jófríðr was a dwarf named Bera, daughter of Bergr, and Lestedir had initially confused her for a male as well. Bera had been found a couple streets away from where Jófríðr was found, and had apparently lost a _mithril_ ring hours before her death.

Now Jófríðr, whose family had not come to claim her for burial just yet, apparently had not a speck of silver about her, much less the precious dwarf-silver _mithril_. She had also made some sort of trade with an elf, despite the cultural distrust between the two races. Lestedir found it all very odd and extremely suspicious, but he wasn’t sure how to point it out to Sílchanar.

Chances are, the elf already knew.

“All of the Dwarves killed had been part of a travelling group,” Lestedir said suddenly. “Or at least, they all travelled heavily enough to need carts for their provisions. Does that mean anything?”

Sílchanar looked up, frowning. “Carts?” he demanded.

“Yes, to carry their goods or provisions. The two male dwarves had silver goods to sell; the two female dwarves were travelling with family. And I still think truesilver has something to do with it.”

“Perhaps, but not as directly as you think,” replied Sílchanar. “Go to sleep.”

“Have you figured out the poison yet?”

“I will tell you tomorrow.”

“What are your thoughts on Master Hanncome?”

“Enough foolish questions from you, Lestedir,” snapped Sílchanar. “All will be revealed in good time. Sleep.”

Lestedir really didn’t need telling twice. He turned over and closed his eyes, and before he succumbed to dreams he heard light Elven footsteps and felt the warmth of another cloak being tucked around him.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning after breakfast found John running over to the crime scene from last night to see the message still scrawled on the walls, the bloody runes shining bright in the morning sun. With a rush of excitement, the hobbit saw Sílchanar walking down the street towards him, black cloak billowing with his every stride. He was also wearing the scarf, just like last night.

“Did you find anything?” John asked. “And where’s the Ranger?”

“Still asleep. He’ll come along eventually. Unlike the two of you, however, I’ve been very productive.” With a smirk, the elf produced a small black notebook much like that of Lestedir’s, its pages marked by notes hastily scribbled in charcoal. “I’ve traced the glass phials to a certain apothecary in Bree as well as discovered the poison used to kill Jófríðr.”

John smiled brightly at that. “And what poison was it?” he asked eagerly. Sílchanar flipped several pages before arriving at a hastily sketched picture of a flower. “A crocus?”

“Excellent, you figured that out quite quickly.”

“I help my friend Marigold plant flowers in her garden every spring,” explained John, his cheeks heating up at the thought of Mary. Marigold Morstan, the only child of poor old Bertie Morstan who lost his wife in childbirth, was two years younger than him at forty-eight and quite an immense beauty in the Shire. True, she wasn’t as radiant as some of the fairer Took daughters, but she was much sought-after in the Hobbiton-Bywater area. John doubted he had a chance.

But now was not the time to dwell on such things, because Sílchanar was watching him curiously. John laughed a little and looked away, blushing. The elf raised an eyebrow.

“I suppose crocuses were amongst those flowers, weren’t they?” one corner of the elf’s mouth twitched upwards ever-so-slightly. “This plant, however, is not a true crocus. It’s called a crocus, though – the autumn crocus.”

“And it’s poisonous?”

“The bulbs are. The flower’s been mistaken for many things, though – crocuses, saffron, flowering garlic, amid others. But the poison contained in the bulbs is immensely deadly. The strain in the poison used to kill Jófríðr is a much faster-acting strain than most, so symptoms and death set in within minutes of ingestion.”

“How long does it usually take?”

Sílchanar’s eyes were grave. “About a day. There is no antidote.”

A shiver ran down John’s spine at that as he looked at the picture. After a moment, the _ellon_ snapped the book shut and stowed it back into his cloak, turning his attention back to the bloody message.

“You don’t think the murderer’s referring to the silver with that message?” asked John. Sílchanar pursed his lips and frowned, staring at the message as if expecting to receive some sort of divine epiphany at any moment.

“If they are, it would only be distantly,” replied Sílchanar. “After all, the killer didn’t bother taking Jófríðr’s gold jewellery or her money at all. In fact, that she managed to lie here, dead, for about four hours without being robbed by unscrupulous men is a miracle by itself.”

“Do you think the message refers to a person, then?” John walked up to the message, arms crossed as he stared up at it. “Was there ever someone named Mithril?”

At that, Sílchanar’s eyes lit up and he clapped his hands together. “Yes! Yes, there is! Mithril was her lore name; she was better known as the Wanderer. She stayed at Rivendell for a while before wandering off. She has gone everywhere, I suspect – traversed all of Middle-earth in all of its ages. I believe she was last seen in Mirkwood.”

His enthusiasm was infectious; John could once more feel excitement course through him as the _ellon_ spun in a circle, drawing interested stares from passing men. As soon as he calmed, though, Sílchanar looked over at John and nodded in the direction of the Prancing Pony.

“Lestedir needs waking, I think,” he whispered, eyes twinkling mischievously. “We’ll send him to find this _elleth_ , and then we can draw the case to a close by catching the killer.”

* * *

After they woke the Ranger and bade him go find an _elleth_ named Mithril who had last been seen in Mirkwood, Sílchanar took the hobbit Hanncome with him to another part of Bree, where the houses were made of brick and stone and stretched out in an orderly line. A shop stood at number three, its doors open. Sílchanar strode in, with Hanncome following him, eyes wide in wonder at the curiosities in the shop.

“This is the apothecary of Mr Hedgetrimmer,” whispered the elf to his hobbit companion. “His wares are all in glass containers of the same make, the same phials as the ones we found last night.”

Hanncome nodded solemnly, looking around him at the phials of various elixirs and concoctions.

“He has a particularly well-known line of poisons, one of which is the autumn crocus poison that I told you about before. Usually, though, people who use his goods will reuse the phials they came in, but as we know, our killer was careless and disposed of his.”

“Maybe he’s not going to kill any more Dwarves,” Hanncome whispered.

“Perhaps.” The consulting Ranger trailed a thoughtful finger over a rack of dried plants. “Or he will kill someone and have to come back to this shop for the poison as well as a twin phial.”

“A twin phial?” Hanncome had been reaching out for a box of beetle eyes; he immediately withdrew his hands and frowned.

“Yes. When I was testing the contents of the phials last night, I discovered poison in only one of them. Undoubtedly the killer must have a way to sneak the poison into the hands of his victims without them noticing it. What better way to do it than through a game of chance?”

A shadow passed over the light from the doorway at that moment, causing the two to turn towards the entrance of the apothecary, where an old woman stood hobbled over her gnarled walking stick.

She clunk into the shop, heading right for the rack of poisons. Sílchanar and Hanncome quickly turned their attention to the healing herbs on the next shelf. Sílchanar found himself staring intently at a beozar as the old woman discussed her purchases with the shopkeeper. He looked down at Hanncome after a moment, a small triumphant smile curling at his lips.

“Be prepared to run, Master Hobbit,” he whispered. Hanncome raised an eyebrow, but nodded nonetheless.

They walked out of the apothecary, Sílchanar noticing the woman’s purchases on his way out, and positioned themselves at the entrance. Moments later, the woman hobbled out of the shop and down the street, innocuous and harmless.

However, as soon as she rounded the corner, Sílchanar and Hanncome quickly rushed from their post after her, only to find her nowhere in sight and a man driving a rickety cart madly down the cobbled path. They tried to chase the cart as well as they could, but the press of the crowd along the street stifled and hindered their progress. By the time they broke out of the crowd, the man was gone as well, like a mirage in the distance on a sweltering day.

“Disguised. I should have noticed,” huffed Sílchanar. Hanncome scuffed the ground, his hands in his pockets.

“What do we do now?” he asked, but at that moment Lestedir came running up to him with a slip of parchment in his hands.

“Ill tidings,” announced the Ranger as he drew to a halt in front of them. “I encountered Radagast the Brown outside Archet, and he told me that he had last seen the _elleth_ Mithril at his home in Rhosgobel.”

“How far back?”

“A month ago.” The Ranger coughed. “He said she had dealings with the Dwarves from Erebor and would often traverse the Great Forest to find them and trade with them, but he never saw the transactions.”

“She stayed with him at Rhosgobel?”

“Only for a week, according to him, and then left for Rivendell once more.”

“But she never appeared in Rivendell.” Sílchanar frowned, turning the new information over and over in her head.

Sighing, Lestedir held out the slip of parchment. “This was her last message to Radagast ere she left for Rivendell.”

The _ellon_ took the parchment, reading the message aloud: “ _My work is unfinished, but they are coming for me. He is sending J.S. after me to undo what I have achieved_.”

“But Radagast’s ravens claim she was killed by Orcs from the Misty Mountains,” Lestedir added. “That’s why she never appeared in Rivendell.”

“So this J.S. person did not get to her in the end.” Sílchanar steepled his fingers, furrowing his brows even deeper as he mulled over the new information. Mithril was doing something that involved Dwarves and trading. Obviously she was buying things from the Dwarves, because the Dwarf-woman Jófríðr was found with Elvish coins in her wallet. At the same time, all of the Dwarves who had died were travelling heavily enough to need a cart –

And then, in a stroke of realisation, the threads came together before Sílchanar’s eyes like one of Vairë’s tapestries. He clapped his hands together, eyes alight with excitement once more.

“Yes, oh yes! I’ve all the threads in my hands now. This is excellent, excellent indeed!” He now knew where to look, so without further warning the _ellon_ dashed away, in search of some additional eyes and ears to help him find the culprit.


	5. Chapter 5

“There he goes again,” sighed Lestedir as John watched Sílchanar dash off, obviously excited about something. “We could wait here, or we could grab a pint at the Prancing Pony. Where’s your friend?”

“He left for the Shire this morning,” John sighed, remembering Mike’s crestfallen face when he told him that he would not be returning with him to the Shire. Mike had, of course, protested and insisted he stay with John, but in the end he packed his bags and left, promising to inform his family of John’s whereabouts.

Lestedir nodded. “So, would a drink be acceptable at this time?”

“It’s elevensies, and I think I’ve skipped second breakfast.” Even as he said that, John heard his stomach growl in loud protest. The Ranger smirked at him, before turning about and striding off in the direction of the inn. John rushed after him as fast as his hobbit feet could take him.

Within moments they were ensconced in the Prancing Pony. Lestedir strode right up to the bar, where Sally Brunheather was wiping glasses with a scowl on her face.

“What’s your business over here?” Sally demanded as soon as John arrived at the bar and was hoisted by the Ranger onto the stool next to him.

“It’s certainly none of yours,” John replied.

“Do play nice, Sally; he’s helping the investigation,” Lestedir sighed.

“No news is good news,” sniffed the barmaid. “Pints for the two of you?”

“Do you know where I can get some bread, Miss Brunheather?” asked John. Sally looked at him, lips pursed, before striding away into the back room and emerging with a small loaf of bread and a pat of butter. “Thank you.”

She nodded, and began to fill two pint glasses with ale. “I heard you were associating with Sílchanar of Rivendell,” she remarked.

John had already bit into his bread, so all he could was nod.

“Bit of advice, then. Stay away from him.”

“Lestedir associates with him.”

“Only for cases he can’t solve.” Sally looked up through her mane of curly black hair and dark lashes. John considered that she was very good-looking for a woman twice his height. “After all, Elves are strange folk.”

“So are us Hobbits, if you’ve never seen one.”

“Well, there’s plenty of you Hobbits in Bree,” Sally replied, smirking as she handed him his pint. “But there’s only ever one Elf here, and that’s Sílchanar. He’s odd even amongst the odd.”

John laughed a bit, thinking that he had much more in common with the _ellon_ than he’d suspected.

“Why would you say that?” he asked.

She raised both eyebrows. “You don’t know?”

“Don’t know what?”

“He likes murders. All the times he’s here for them I keep on thinking that he’s only solving these mysteries because he gets some kind of pleasure from them. And someday, that won’t be enough.”

Lestedir coughed again. “Sally, don’t –”

“You know what I mean, Lestedir. Some day just solving the murder won’t be enough for Sílchanar and he’ll turn against us.”

“Why would you say that?” repeated John, brows furrowing.

“He gets _bored_ ,” sneered the barmaid, suggesting that there was something evil and criminal in boredom, especially when applied to Sílchanar of Rivendell. John thought it was all ridiculous. Surely Sílchanar wouldn’t resort to murder if he was bored; it seemed so out of line with Elvish nature.

But then again, he was starting to realise that not every Elf, Dwarf, or Hobbit in Middle-earth followed what their society dictated of them. Sílchanar didn’t, Jófríðr didn’t, and even he himself –

His thoughts were disrupted at that moment by the arrival of a small boy, barely taller than John himself, whose face was dirt-covered and whose eyes were wide.

“Ranger Lestedir! Mr Sílchanar’s driven off in a cart and I think he needs your help!”

* * *

“Of course. I should have seen it sooner,” Sílchanar remarked as they entered a clearing in Chetwood Forest.

“Didn’t do you much good, did it?” snickered the cart-driver. He had greying hair and was dressed in rags, and his heart beat far too erratically for a healthy man.

“Each of the Dwarves killed had used your cart to take their things through Eriador,” the elf stated, stepping lightly onto a fallen log. “Two of the Dwarves were silversmiths, and yet there was no _mithril_ amongst their goods. Dwarf-women often wear _mithril_ jewellery, especially when they marry, yet the Dwarf-woman you killed, Jófríðr, had none on her. In a way, the message you wrote above her corpse referred to the precious metal, yet it also referred to the _elleth_ she and the others traded with prior to their deaths.”

“Mithril Radhriel, the Wanderer of Lothlórien,” agreed the cart-driver. “A courier of the Lady Galadriel sent to urge the people of Middle-earth to unite in the face of the Darkness growing in the East.”

“The one you work for seeks to keep all Free Peoples divided,” Sílchanar agreed, taking a seat on the fallen log. “Tell me, _Jeff Smalldale_ , why are you working for him at all? You yourself do not walk in the shadow of Mordor. Instead, you are merely acting out of grief and love, for your dead wife and your starving children. Why must you do the Enemy’s dirty work to save them?”

The cart-driver was very quiet. “How...” he whispered after a moment. “How did you know?”

“You’ve left a couple patches of beard go unshaven, yet you bear a wedding-ring. Had your wife been alive, she would have caught that. Your clothes have seen better days, and there are wrinkles and handprints on them that could only be from the hands of small children.” A pause. “Your heart is irregular. You’re dying, and you don’t want your children to become squalid beggars. So you take what you can get, since cart-driving must be such an unrewarding job that you would need the extra money.”

Jeff Smalldale nodded. “He came to me last winter, told me that he could keep my children warm and well-fed after I die if I would serve him faithfully and do as he asked. I had no choice. He was very persuasive.”

“Who?”

Smalldale shook his head. “Upon pain of death I cannot tell.”

Sílchanar nodded, lapsing into silence. After a moment, he sighed and looked at the pitiful driver. “You brought me here to kill me, Smalldale. Your Master would hate for you to be tardy.”

“ _I_ will not kill you, Sílchanar Eregnirion,” snapped Smalldale, suddenly business-like and vaguely menacing as he took out the two matching phials. “I will talk to you, and you shall kill yourself.”

“As I suspected. This was how you killed the Dwarves, wasn’t it? Offered them a choice and they chose the crocus poison?”

“The contents of the two bottles look identical in every way. Whichever one they chose, I drank from the other.”

Sílchanar sighed. “Only a half-in-half chance,” he pointed out.

“You play not the halves in this game, Master Elf. You are playing me, and I’ve managed to win this game four times so far. Let’s see how well you do.”

And with that, he set the two bottles on the log next to Sílchanar, leering at the _ellon_.

“Make your choice, and I will take whichever bottle you don’t.”


	6. Chapter 6

John and Lestedir rushed out of the Prancing Pony. Lestedir’s horse was tied to the hitching-post; it was grey like the Ranger himself, and seemed irritated at being tied up.

“Ride with me, Master Hobbit,” Lestedir offered as he untied his horse. At John’s nod, he hoisted the hobbit onto the saddle and mounted behind him, grabbing the reins. “ _Noro lim, Tálagor_!”

John had never ridden anything beyond a docile pony, and so he was nearly unseated as the horse broke into a hurried gallop through the streets of Bree, nearly knocking aside passerby on its way out the gates. Even the gate-warden had to scramble to open the gates, to avoid being trampled. Once clear of the city, Lestedir reined Tálagor to a slow trot and dismounted, ostensibly to look for clues.

“Hooves and wheels passed through here not too long ago,” muttered the Ranger. “Two horses, abreast, travelling southeast towards the wilderness between here and Rivendell.”

“Do you think that’s the cart that Sílchanar was in?”

“Let’s find out.” Lestedir mounted again, taking the reins from John. “Come on!”

Off they galloped again, Tálagor following the tracks around the perimeters of town until said tracks swerved and turned due east, towards Staddle and Archet. Onwards they went, John’s heart pounding furiously in his chest as he hoped that Sílchanar had not come to harm. The elf was most likely skilled in fighting, though, and he knew he shouldn’t worry needlessly – yet the thought of losing Sílchanar to a murderer had already seized his heart in a cold vice.

They rushed past the sleepy town of Staddle, where people were milling about the gates with livestock behind them. Farmland and Hobbit-holes stretched along this side of the hill, although the crops grown looked nothing like the brightly-coloured crops in the Shire. The soil wasn’t as well-tilled here, that much John could see.

Tálagor lost the tracks amidst a giant train of wagons heading up the road to Staddle, but after some enquiries Lestedir directed the horse once more onto the trail leading towards Archet and Chetwood Forest, looming ahead on the periphery.

“How did they get to the Chetwood so fast?” John asked suddenly. “The driver must have been very reckless.”

“That’s what the farmers of Staddle say,” replied Lestedir, urging his horse onwards.

They reached the Chetwood in half an hour, whereupon John’s stomach felt an odd twisting at the sight of the empty cart. The horses were tied to a nearby tree, otherwise unattended. Lestedir dismounted and set the hobbit onto the ground before tying his horse next to the carthorses, turning his attention back to the ground in search of tracks.

John couldn’t stand it any longer. However wary of the Old Forest he may have been back in the Shire, he could not stand to tarry while somewhere within the wood Sílchanar was confronting a killer. It could have been courage driving him, or stupidity, or extremely stupid courage – but whatever it was, John found himself running into the forest, heedless of Lestedir’s cries behind him.

* * *

“You cannot force Dwarves to do anything, though. How exactly did you do it?”

“Don’t stall for time, Sílchanar. You know it’s useless.”

The _ellon_ laughed. “You try so hard to be threatening, Smalldale. I think I should be impressed by your persistence.”

“It wasn’t an experiment, was it?” the cart-driver asked, causing Sílchanar to look at him in alarm. “What roused the anger of Lord Elrond wasn’t an experiment. It was his discovery of your addiction.”

Sílchanar felt ice course through his veins. “How do you know?” he asked, his face carefully schooled into an expressionless mask.

“I just do.” Smalldale smirked.

“Your master knows. He told you, didn’t he?”

“It’s only fair, isn’t it? You know how I did it and why. This is how I got them all to play the game. I know your deepest, darkest secrets, Sílchanar Eregnirion. Only by my death or yours will those secrets stay untold.”

* * *

The forest surrounded John, musty and old and dark, like the deep slumber of memories forgotten in the mists of time. Chetwood wasn’t as old as the Old Forest, which probably had roots in the great forests of the East, but it was still dark beneath its branches and the air between was thick with silence. Obviously the Men of Archet stayed out of the heart of the forest.

He fingered the small knife he had slipped out of Lestedir’s saddlebags. The Ranger could probably figure out that his knife had been stolen, but John had none of his own that would be of any use in a scrape in such a dangerous-looking forest. What use was a butter-knife against things like giant spiders and goblins and whatever else old Bilbo talked about at his birthday parties?

Knife in hand, John snuck through the forest and tried not to think too hard about any sounds that weren’t voices speaking. Eventually, the trees ahead of him thinned into a clearing, and the voices in the clearing rang through, sharp and clear.

One of them was definitely Sílchanar’s.


	7. Chapter 7

“It must be dreadful, being so bored all the time,” Smalldale remarked drily as Sílchanar looked closely at the two phials.

“This game is no game. It’s merely chance.”

“Not chance. I’d say a _stratagem_ , at least. Genius. I know how people think, and how people think I think. Isn’t it funny, how simple-minded even the Wise can be? Everyone’s a fool, in the end. Even you, the great Sílchanar Eregnirion.”

Sílchanar harrumphed, before reaching out and taking the phial before him. Smalldale chuckled ominously, like dark thunder.

“Well? You’ve put your faith in that bottle? Ready to bet your life?”

Slowly, the two of them opened the phials. Sílchanar sniffed his gingerly, his stomach sinking in disappointment as he realised what the contents were.

“Still the addict, I suppose you are. There’s only so much _athelas_ can do – you’re always in search of more, of that _other_ plant that drove you into the path of Lord Elrond’s anger all those years ago.”

Slowly, Sílchanar tipped his head back, trying to stall the time between now and his drinking of the phial’s contents as long as possible.

“It’s infuriating, isn’t it? Infuri –”

A _thunk_ rang through the air. The cart-driver suddenly made a gurgling noise, eyes wide with shock. As he fell over, the contents of his bottle spilling out onto the leafy forest floor, Sílchanar noticed a dagger sticking out of the man’s back and a small figure cowering in the shadows. Hanncome.

Hanncome had thrown a dagger into the man’s back. The hobbit had actually killed someone to save _his_ life, and somehow for Sílchanar that gesture was more touching than any act of kindness he’d been shown in at least the past century. It was a bit staggering.

Sílchanar set down the phial and lay the dying man out on the fallen log. There was very little blood, since the dagger had hit the man solidly in the back. However, as the elf pulled out the knife to clean it on the grass, crimson blood spilled forward all over the log. Smalldale hissed in pain.

“You’re dying, but there is still time to hurt you,” Sílchanar stated grimly as he loomed over the cart-driver. “Tell me this at least: who is your Master?”

The cart-driver whimpered in agony and heaved for breath; his breaths were becoming ragged and the light was fading from his eyes. “No,” he gasped.

“Tell me, and I will ease your passing,” growled Sílchanar. “I need a name!”

“No!” Smalldale groaned, but Sílchanar grabbed his arm and wrenched it, anger and frustration coursing through him. To anyone else he would have looked like a wrathful Elven-lord of old, of great and terrible beauty and power.

“ _The name_!” hissed the elf, applying yet more pressure. Smalldale screamed in pain.

Finally, with his last breath, he cried “ _Orchír_!” at the top of his lungs, and was no more.

Sílchanar sighed, and released the dead man. He straightened up with the dagger in hand and walked noiselessly towards the hobbit, who squeaked a bit in surprise at seeing him before smiling tentatively.

“Hello,” he offered, shuffling his feet.

“Hello,” replied Sílchanar, handing him the dagger. “Good shot.”

“Good... well, yes. I guess. Hobbits are excellent archers.”

“How is that relevant?” Sílchanar asked.

Hanncome laughed sheepishly as he hid the weapon once more. “I have no idea,” he admitted, grinning. And at that, both elf and hobbit descended into peals of hysterical laughter, as if they were little more than children enjoying a good joke.

It felt nice to laugh again. Sílchanar wasn’t sure when he had last laughed this hard.

“Are you all right, though?”

“Of course I’m all right.”

“Really? How? You just killed a man.”

The hobbit chuckled. “But he wasn’t a very nice man, was he?”

“No, I don’t think he was. And he drove that cart quite terribly. Had I a weaker stomach I may have vomited.”

 “How’d you figure out it was the cart-driver?”

“Simple. Lestedir pointed out that the victims all used carts to carry their possessions. That ties them together even without the _mithril_ trading, which also happened with a wandering elf-maidfrom Lórien named Mithril, the Wanderer. Mithril collected _mithril_ to fund the efforts of messengers for a particular cause.”

“What cause?” the hobbit looked totally lost, unsurprisingly enough. What was surprising was how much Sílchanar didn’t mind.

“To spread the word about Sauron’s return to power, to urge all Free Peoples to unite. Jeff Smalldale, the cart-driver, had been sent to kill Mithril while she stayed with Radagast the Brown, hence her note. But the Orcs got to her before he.” He paused. “Isn’t it perfect, though, being a cart-driver? No one ever pays attention to them if they’re there and forget to return their goods if they’re not. Concealed within the populace, they’d be able to convince others to trust them with their belongings and in this case, their lives.”

“How did you get to Smalldale, though?

“The initials say J.S., so I merely had some extra help in hunting down cart-drivers with those initials. But I think I got hold of him at the same time he got hold of me, and so…” Sílchanar gestured sheepishly to the clearing, to the dead man lying behind them. “Thank you.”

 “Ah, there you are!” There came a rustling of underbrush, and moments later the Ranger Lestedir rushed onto the scene. “Confound it, Sílchanar, what possessed you to – oh.” The Ranger noticed the dead cart-driver. “You killed him?”

“No, no,” scoffed Sílchanar. “Take a look at the body. Definitely not my doing.”

“That wound could have been from anything!” protested the Ranger. “How am I to –?”

Sílchanar shook his head. “Must’ve been someone from Archet who had a grudge against him. I certainly wouldn’t know, and I think I ought to get some rest tonight before setting out for Rivendell tomorrow with Master Hanncome.” He beamed at the hobbit’s sudden shock and confusion.

“Rivendell?” echoed the hobbit.

“You’re already out of the Shire. Why not visit the Last Homely House? Lord Elrond would be pleased to meet you, I’m sure.”

Hanncome looked down at the ground, as if trying to weigh his options, and then nodded eagerly. “I’d love to visit Rivendell, Mr Sílchanar,” he agreed.

“Call me Lamaendir if you’d like,” Sílchanar replied, causing Lestedir to raise his eyebrows.

“Well, in that case you ought to call me John,” Hanncome declared, extending his hand for the elf to shake again. Sílchanar smiled, before turning to the befuddled Ranger once more.

“I will send you a complete report of the case in a week,” he said. “I’m sure Jófríðr’s husband already knows about her death and has collected her body. Where is my horse?”

“In the barn, where it ought to be. What are we going to do about _his_ horses?” wondered Lestedir as they made their way back through the forest. The afternoon was lengthening the shadows of the trees, and the cart and horses were still tied to the tree outside the Chetwood, amicably grazing at the edges of the field.

Sílchanar hitched the horses back to the cart and jumped into the driver’s seat; Hanncome sat next to him and Lestedir rode his horse beside him. As he cracked the reins to get the horses moving, he thought about Smalldale’s children.

* * *

John packed the next morning, preparing himself for his next adventure. When he arrived in the reception with his pack and cloak, he found Sílchanar discussing something with Mr Butterbur, both of them surrounded by a gaggle of dirty-looking children. The _ellon_ caught his eye and nodded, bade his farewells to the children and Mr Butterbur, and met with John at the door.

“What was that about?” asked John as he shouldered his pack and let the elf hoist him onto a different horse. This one, whose name was Rochael, was black with a white blaze down its face. He had served Sílchanar faithfully for many years already; his keen senses of direction and smell had aided his master on many cases.

“The cart-driver had children who are now orphans,” Sílchanar replied, eyes fixed ahead as he mounted behind the hobbit. “I ensured that Butterbur would give them a place to stay in return for their labour.”

John laughed. “Well, Sally Brunheather is very mistaken about you, I think.”

“Is she?” Sílchanar murmured, as Rochael trotted out of the gates of Bree and turned East towards the hidden valley of Rivendell.

“She thinks that you like murders and that you might get bored enough to commit them.”

“She’s a fool. Don’t listen to her.”

John only laughed harder and brighter at that, his blue eyes crinkling as Rochael reached the East Road and sped into a full gallop. Around them beautiful desolation stretched, from the craggy speck of Weathertop ahead on the horizon to the tall blue outline of the Misty Mountains far away in cloud-capped distance. Greens were no longer the lush, bright jewel-green of Shire hills, but the muted olive-green of wilderness caught between the forces of good and evil.

Still, the air was clean and sweet in the wild, and the sky was an everlasting expanse of blue, stretching onwards to the clouds in the East. Somewhere along this ribbon of road would be Rivendell, the Last Homely House, a place Bilbo had said would be full of light and laughter. So as they rode with Rochael’s hooves thundering in the dirt, John felt a strange elation swell in his chest, like a golden balloon.

He was going on an adventure, at long last.


End file.
